


Who Can Make It a Torment

by JuneLoveland



Category: Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuneLoveland/pseuds/JuneLoveland
Summary: “No man is offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment.”-- Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey, Vol. II, Ch. IVIn a way, Henry is right. In another, more accurate way, he's entirely incorrect.





	Who Can Make It a Torment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trane/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Major!

Henry smiled fondly as he watched the progress of Catherine’s pencil. Her brow furrowed, and she glanced up to scan the landscape in front of her for a moment before returning to her canvas. A few scribbles, she shaded in a bit of moss and bark at the cliff’s edge, but gripped her pencil diffidently. He sensed a shift in her mood and turned his eyes quickly back to his own work, hastily sketching the curve of her bonnet string as he noted her movements from the corner of his eye; she half-turned her head over her shoulder, toward where he stood behind. Some trouble with the light, Henry thought – they had loitered quite late at table and missed the full sunshine of midday, and the shades Catherine had now to charm this day’s first sketch were somewhat muddled. She was making a valiant effort though to clear them, he thought, as she hesitated. She hummed softly, but again bent her head toward her board and carried on, while he savored this opportunity to peruse his own pleasure at her resolve. Some part of her uncertainty was still delicious, as was her natural trust in his knowledge. But this newly revealed desire in her to find her own way, he had discovered, had its own decided charm. A few weeks only had Catherine been his wife, but already she had surprised him several times with this growing confidence; he relished the thought of where such might lead them in the coming days, and in times far ahead.

Lost in both sketches he was making of his bride, Henry did not hear the approach of an intruder on their idyll until said third had reached their path and stepped onto the promontory. He hailed Henry with a nod and wandered over to the spot where their easels rested.

“My name is Chalmers, and you have my apologies, sir,” he said addressing Henry, but directing his gaze more toward Catherine, “for disturbing such a peaceful looking interlude, but I could not help it. You looked so charmingly in harmony with all around, I suppose I felt it my duty to spoil it." The Tilneys, startled out of their solitude, made no immediate answer to this rather strange speech. Henry was at some loss to account for his presence, having been assured of this spot's seclusion by their innkeeper, but the man was speaking still. "In fact I make this walk frequently, and I rarely encounter others who find its views worth scrutinizing, let alone capturing for further enjoyment."

Their continued silence seemed to finally impress upon him the nature of his intrusion. He smiled disarmingly for another moment, and made to move on. Catherine looked to Henry, eyes speaking plainly her wish to know more of this man, and her confusion as to why Henry had as yet made no response to him. He quite agreed with her of course; although they had been taken by surprise by this stranger, his earnest manner did much to recommended him where his interruption had not. He at once gave the man's candor and contrition their proper tribute, and at last made their own introduction. “And now for your own revelations, sir, our society commands that you are entitled to a return of confidence in kind." He laid down his pencil and took Catherine's hand. "I am Reverend Tilney, of Woodston in Gloucester, and this is my wife.” They exchanged bows of acknowledgment. “As you see, I am using some of your fine Bristol views to give some introductory instruction in the picturesque.”

Chalmers fairly bloomed under the softening in Henry's manner, and now made free to address Catherine. “Ah! I have interrupted a lesson. Well, ma’am, if this is an early essay, then I must proclaim you a natural talent.” He seemed a very amiable sort, certainly eager to please.

Catherine took up the kindness in his speech directly, Henry noted. “Thank you for the compliment, sir! Do you draw? I do admit I blurred my way through that grouping of branches at the right edge of the scene, but I think it has come off quite nicely.” She threw an eye to Henry, mouth only slightly turned up at the corner. “Quite attractively indeed.”

“I am somewhat out of practice at the art myself, but I believe my taste may still be fairly trusted. I see nothing but what is most striking.”

“Then you are a most generous appraiser. Even Henry will not allow that I am a beginner with only a beginner’s hand. He always criticizes my trunks most shamefully.”

“Aye, I brim with shame when I do so.” He grinned warmly at Catherine, forgetting for a moment that they were observed.

But their company only tsked, and carried on. “If a wife be not supported by her husband, then it is a sad state of affairs,” said Chalmers, attempting to catch Catherine’s eye with, Henry had to acknowledge, quite a dazzling smile.

She entered into the justice of his raillery with warmth, but, Henry observed with satisfaction, directed her arch glance toward him as she spoke and not this Chalmers, much though the man seemed to be trying for it. She had him mesmerized; bewitched already.

This was one of his favorite things about his wife, Henry now realized, her ability, all unknowing, to make a man a little bit in love with her before he knew half what he was about, with no arts or airs beyond her own sweet self. He was grateful for this irresistible mixture of frankness, archness, and purity in her that had so unerringly drawn him in, and for the Providence that had allowed him to gain her heart, to create an answering regard and passion where no other man could. His heart swelled as he considered his position. He flashed a bit of dazzle of his own as he linked his arm in Catherine’s, and he was gratified by the slight catch in her breathing as he did so. He spoke with a light heart therefore, as he rejoined, “On the contrary, Chalmers. I am a great encourager to newcomers in the field. In fact, I would be only too happy if it were possible to ensure that every beginner had as much natural aptitude as my wife. It is only because I see the highest promise in you that I exact the finest performance from you, my dear.”

He was rewarded further by her squeezing his arm as she chided him affectionately, “I am not yet convinced that your program is the best for student morale, but I will vouchsafe that I have never produced a finer work of art.”

“And with that tribute of praise, I believe our lesson is ended for the day. Will you dine with us, Chalmers? We are lodging at the Golden Dragon.”

“I should like nothing more.”

Henry reflected with satisfaction that this little intermezzo had given another color to his love of Catherine, and another reason to trust that their years together, whether filled with calm or adventure, would forever be supported by this sweet bond between them.

\--

A slight chill shot up Catherine’s spine as they began their climb; she couldn’t tell if it was from the sight of the imposing edifice they were approaching or only the brisk March breeze whistling above their heads. She gripped Henry’s arm, she hoped not too tightly, and glanced his way.

Henry met her eyes with a smile. “My darling,” said he, unable to help pressing a surreptitious kiss to the inside of her wrist, “surely it can’t be that your heart quails now, on the very point of gaining its dearest wish?”

Catherine cast another, only slightly dubious eye at the castle at the top of the winding, crumbling, stone stair. She decided that it was only the influence of the clouds, quite thick and close today, grey and letting in only misty streaks of sunlight, that could be causing this bout of nerves. She was far removed from the girl whose head could be turned by fantasies like those they read about, and she hastened to reassure him of that.

“ _My_ darling,” she rejoined, “Surely you can’t suspect me of any fear of a mere house, and its peaceful inhabitants? I, who know better than perhaps anyone how very English and Christian we all are? Now, will you or will you not weave me any tales of what I might expect from this tour?”

Henry cast about in his imagination for some bit of fantasy that might thrill his wife and stoke her anticipation for the present adventure. He must of course be careful to avoid poaching any scenario from the tales they’d read together, but he thought he could still find something to thrill her. He set his features in a very determined grimace, and began.

“We are minutes from embarking on a tour of the finest old places in the entire country. I need not give you the gruesome history of this very fortress, in which, perhaps, the wretched Countess of Averill met her untimely end defending her honor and that of her home! But perhaps I will tell you that if we should happen to be conducted into her bedchamber, you, my dear, should keep your eyes peeled for any signs of the bloodstains shed at the point of her death. But be sharp, for they may appear and disappear before your very eyes!”

His tale lasted the length of the walk into the gateway, where they were received by the keeper of Averill Castle. Henry was so rapt in his imaginings that he didn’t notice the look of not quite approval she’d cast his way while he and Catherine chattered. She greeted them, however, with equanimity. The only words she spoke in excess of those she addressed to the others in their touring party were for Henry: “You are a lively one,” she said, casting a glance at Catherine who was standing a little aside. “Pray your wife may not grow weary of your ways.”

At these words, Henry thought he felt a small twinge of chill, a slight shiver, but then, they were indoors. He had no time to inquire into the woman’s cryptic comments either, for the tour was beginning, and Catherine was seeking his eye and his arm.

They were a rather small party of travelers, a scattered collection of couples like themselves and young merry-makers here to see the horrid sights on offer for an afternoon. As they began walking, passing from the gateway into a courtyard and then the bailey, Henry also spotted a man of about five and twenty, seemingly alone, who he had not noted before among their companions. This was odd, but he supposed that he hadn't been especially observant, and after all, what need had he to catalog ever tall, fair-haired gentleman that came in his way?

He did, however, note Catherine’s eyes, sparkling, and as bright as the masses of ancient stone surrounding them were dull, here alight at the details of the motte’s creation and destruction, and now marveling at the hints the housekeeper let fall of a disgruntled suitor who may have drowned himself in a vat of ale as she conducted them through the brewhouse. After an hour of such mundane wanderings, the housekeeper left her charges to their own devices in the inner bailey. Here, Henry and Catherine separated, Catherine keen to run her hands over every archway and explore window-seat in search of a trapdoor or secreted chamber, while he was content to study the family portraits in the gallery along with most of the rest of their party.

Tucked away in the far corner, he glimpsed a sketch of a young man that seemed familiar to him. In this part of the country, that was remarkable enough, but the man’s clothing also plainly spoke of him as a friend of the Conqueror. However, as he looked more closely at the young man’s face, the thought struck Henry that the man in the portrait favored the lone young gentleman suddenly attached to their party. So strong was this resemblance in fact that Henry turned to compare the likeness of the painting with its present owner, but he no longer observed the man among the group of guests milling about the bailey. The hairs on his forearm stood on their ends, but he could not think why; this was surely just coincidence. He stopped a party of three Oxford lads to ask the whereabouts of the stranger –

“Don’t recall anyone of that sort stopping with us, sir. We were all in groupings, were we not, when we legged it up the mountain?”

Henry bowed his assent and strode purposefully through the bailey in search of Catherine, this stranger, the housekeeper – Catherine – how long had it been since he had seen her?

He steadied his thoughts and attempted to refrain from panic. After all, what had he seen? An odd portrait, and a man he had caught two or three glimpses of? There was no need for any misgiving; he would find Catherine, she would laugh at his alarm in her turn, and all would be well. These thoughts cheered Henry slightly as he turned a corner into what he recalled as the keep’s entrance. He stopped short at the sight that greeted him there: Catherine, engaged in earnest conversation with this strange man while the housekeeper hovered at the edge of the scene, staring out of a cramped window onto the courtyard below. Henry sighed with sweet relief as he realized that here was Catherine, safe and sound. He caught snatches of their conversation, however, as he stepped into the keep, and his trepidation returned.

“Such purity deserves its like in return, do you not agree? Or if that cannot be found, then at least he who sees and honors it as is warranted. It is shameful for these gifts to be wasted upon those who value them not.”

“No woman in England knows this as well as my wife,” said Henry lightly, attempting to catch Catherine’s eye and take her arm. He reached for her, and touched only air where he saw plainly standing. He called for her and she made no response, as though she didn’t hear him. She seemed transfixed, however, by the man in front of her, and would not tear her eyes away from him as he went on.

“A man who merely trifles when he should reassure, how can his woman know she may depend on him? A man who has only and always a clever riposte when he should attend with sincerity to his dearest love’s wishes and cares?”

“What is this? Who are you?!” Henry demanded, but the man paid him no heed, and only held Catherine’s gaze as he continued speaking. Henry saw the housekeeper attempting to slip out of the room as those poisoned words spilled forth. Her he reached for as well, and had the reward this time of grasping flesh where he found it. “Explain yourself!” He commanded her, his voice reaching a pitch of frenzy he did not recognize but would never blush to own in such a circumstance. “What have you done to my wife?”

The woman squirmed and tried to free herself, but Henry’s grip only tightened. “I will ask you again.” Her eyes narrowed, and he suddenly drew back with a yelp as though burned. She looked at him scornfully as she said, “Little good any of your words will do you now that the Master has her. He knows how to talk sense. He knows how to talk so a woman can trust what he says. If your wife knows what’s good for her, she’ll not distress herself much trying to remember you.

Henry stared at her in open wonder. “How have you any idea who we are?”

She answered with alacrity, eager to heap coals of contempt on his head. “I heard you as you were coming in, making up to the poor thing, even though she was scared to pieces. And I’m sure the Master heard too; he makes it his business.” This, she said with a backwards glance. “He had his own heart broken by one of your kind; all flash, all charm. Never had anything on offer when his spirit was sore and aching.”

In an instant, it seemed to Henry, his heart and mind leapt through fields of confusion, fear, awe, and dread; they landed in a sea of rage. “You are wrong,” he cried, squaring the housekeeper into the corner. In this way, he saw all that was passing in the room; although he could no longer hear the vicious words of the stranger, he could see that neither touched the other. “You know nothing of us. In this hour’s visit, you presume to judge the nature of our understanding based on the wit that charms our chatter, while knowing nothing of the devotion that beats within my breast. You have dared to accuse me of holding my wife cheaply, of considering her as a jousting partner or some sort of play-pretty to fob my genius on, little realizing that the very treasure you value in her is more precious to me than all the wit in Christendom. Purity of heart has never worn so fair a face, and I bless the day God showed it to me.”

He’d been striding forward as he spoke, he now realized, and this housekeeper finally backed into the corner near the window where she’d been standing previously. She cried out, and the sound seemed to snap something in the air. Henry felt it as lightning charging through him; it energized him, and he wanted to move further forward, to force this woman to give some accounting of herself and these hideous presumptions, above all to bring him his wife, but another sound arrested him.

“There you are!”

Catherine’s placid tone alerted him to the fact of how ragged his own voice had gotten, so Henry cleared his throat before he answered her. “Yes, my dear. I am here.” He glanced around the room and saw no sign of the Master. The housekeeper, he observed with satisfaction, was slinking out of the room back toward the bailey. Henry peered earnestly into Catherine’s face, but she seemed completely insensible of all that had passed. This was no time to frighten her with the awful truth either, he thought soberly. Until he was sure of Catherine safe in their own home, until he could canvass this hideous business in a world he understood, he would speak no word of what had occurred here in this place.

“I wondered what kept you,” she was carrying on, oblivious of the import of her words, “and was half afraid that you’d been enraptured by some beautiful ancestor’s portrait.”

He grabbed her and had the satisfaction of feeling her whole, sweet, solid self beneath his hands as he kissed her softly before replying, “Until your father installs a portrait gallery at Fullerton, my dear, you need have no worries of that kind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow I managed to not quite fit the letter of any of your prompts, but I hope this fits the spirit!


End file.
